The Boathouse (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 14)

by Vickie McKeehan

  “Sure. Where will you be?”

  He’d already decided to do his own bit of digging in his own way. And he knew where to start—the old trunk Brent had checked out before and found nothing suspicious. It was time to take the thing apart.

  “I won’t be far. But I need time to do this without any interruptions.”

  “Do what?”

  “Go through that trunk in the study, make sure no one missed anything.”

  “Why? You’ve already gone through it once.”

  “A cursory thing on the road and coming back when I was tired. But look how I got sidetracked once I found the shrimp boat connection. And you needed to be in the lawyer’s office that day to see the guy’s face when he enjoyed telling me about the trunk, handing me the key, and then icing the cake with the storage unit. That has to mean something, Bodie. The attorney’s demeanor has to be significant for a reason.”

  She wanted to caution him about reading too much into it. But she didn’t have the heart to burst his bubble. “Do what you have to do, Tucker. Go through it three, four times if that’s what will ease your mind.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not crazy. My gut tells me there’s something inside that thing, something significant. I just need to find it.”

  Eighteen

  Bodie spent the rest of the warm summer evening curled up on the couch with Lago for company. They watched a movie, Turner & Hooch, although Lago mostly snoozed through the boring parts.

  Around nine, she gave him his antibiotics with a bit of peanut butter to make the capsule go down easier.

  Afterward, she took him for a walk, wandering along the path in the backyard. She sat down on a fallen log, next to a patch of blue cornflowers and listened to the breeze whistle through the cottonwoods.

  Overhead, the night sky seemed like a band of brilliant diamonds, winking down at her in jeweled harmony.

  Strangely, Lago wouldn’t venture too far from her side, sticking close to the line of trees located behind her. When she heard rustling, so did Lago. His head popped up despite the wound to his neck and the cone he wore. The dog went on alert.

  She’d never heard him growl before, but he did now. It was enough to send Bodie rushing past the wildflowers toward the house. She gathered up the dog and herded him to the back door. It was only then when she reached the patio that she turned around to track the sound better. Someone or something was in those woods.

  Looking around on the terrace, she picked up the nearest thing she could use for a weapon—a heavy pot of dirt that looked like whatever had been growing in there had died a long time ago. Heaving the pot abover her head, she got ready to hurl it, prepared to defend herself and Lago against anyone who stepped out of the bushes. But her shoulders relaxed when a skunk scurried out of the hedges instead of a prowler.

  “I’m losing it,” Bodie muttered to the dog as she set the pot back down before sliding open the door.

  Tucker stood a few feet away in the den and stepped out of the shadows. “I think I found something.”

  Bodie jumped and put her hand over her heart. “You scared me.”

  “Why? Did something happen outside?” Concerned, he went to the window and scanned the yard.

  “We thought someone was out there in the trees.”

  Without saying a word, he walked into the kitchen and pulled a flashlight from the drawer.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somebody is out there.”

  She tugged on his arm. “We thought we heard footsteps crunching through the brush, but it was just a skunk.”

  “I’d better check anyway. Someone lurking around might’ve spooked the skunk. I’ll be right back.”

  “Be careful out there,” Bodie cautioned as she watched him angle his way around to the right side of the trees. To the dog, she held him close and said, “As you can see, he’s not taking your stabbing incident lightly or his crack to the head.”

  Exhausted, Lago curled up in his bed and closed his eyes. Fifteen anxious minutes ticked by before Tucker reappeared and slid open the patio door.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Recent footprints. They’re heading east to the old treehouse before turning north and using the dry bed of the gulley to follow the ravine away from the property. There was someone definitely back there, hanging around, probably watching the house.”

  Chill bumps moved up Bodie’s arms and neck. “Tucker, there must be something in this house he wants. There has to be. Otherwise, he wouldn’t take the risk and keep coming back.”

  Tucker kept moving down the hall to the study. “I know. I might’ve found out what it is. That old trunk has a false bottom. Once I was able to chisel away the thin veneer and get into the real compartment, I found this.”

  She stared into the room where the contents of the trunk littered the floor. But the trunk itself sat on top of his father’s Art Deco desk. He pulled back a section of faded floral fabric glued to the partition. “It’s made from balsa wood. You know that stuff kids use for model airplanes, only this is an inch thicker, but not so thick you’d notice the extra weight when you picked it up to carry it.”

  Bodie stared into the secret compartment and saw an older model metal revolver.

  When she started to reach in to touch it, he held her hand still. “Don’t. I need to call Brent and let him see it just like I found it.”

  “Is that…the murder weapon?”

  “Probably since it’s a .38. There are bullets in that side pocket a few inches to the right. See?” Tucker used a ballpoint pen to stretch open the much smaller pouch so she could look inside. There were at least six bullets hidden away.

  “I’ll be damned. The killer went to Florida to find the gun.”

  “That’d be my guess. Maybe Dad wouldn’t give up the location, and that’s why the guy shot him.”

  “I’m sorry, Tucker.”

  “Me too. But it proves beyond a doubt that Dad had some hand in what happened that August night.”

  “Or at least helped cover up who did it.”

  Bodie knew this was serious when Brent called in a forensic team to load up the trunk and take away the gun.

  While the crime scene technicians took photographs, Brent sat Tucker down for a heart to heart. As they drank coffee that no one wanted, the three sat around the table while Brent gathered his thoughts. “Look, you need to consider that whoever was here tonight, now knows we have the murder weapon.”

  “Maybe now he’ll leave Tucker alone,” Bodie said, her voice fortified with a degree of hope.

  “You’d think that, but my fear is he might try to exact a revenge scenario on the son.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tucker began. “Revenge for what?”

  “This killer may believe his own twisted version of events, that Joe is the responsible party. Joe is the one who got him into this, Joe is the one who dragged him into the insurance scam, the arson, and the murders. Get my drift?”

  “Not really. All this happened before I was even born. How could the killer blame me for something he and my dad cooked up? What kind of warped logic is that? It’s not my fault everything’s about to crack open.”

  Brent shook his head. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. We’re dealing with someone who might be trying to rewrite history and make it his own. The guilty party is Joe. It wasn’t the killer who owned the Stella Greer or came up with the idea of scamming the insurance.”

  “Ah. You’re saying from his perspective he got talked into this by Dad? I see. Did anything come of the airline passenger lists? Are we any closer to IDing him?”

  Brent scrubbed a hand down his jawline. “Even as we speak, Eastlyn is still going through each name and verifying if they used a genuine ID. It takes time to authenticate each driver’s license or passport. So far, she’s checked hundreds who flew that morning. None of them have links to Pelican Pointe. But if our guy used a fake ID, it’ll make it harder to trace because it must’ve been an excellent f
orgery.”

  “What if this guy flew out of a smaller airport?” Bodie prompted. “Law enforcement won’t be able to trace him for certain then, will they?”

  “That’s an option we’ve already explored. Colt has been checking the smaller airports in the area, only to learn that it is possible to fly out from places like that, catch a charter to another airport, then end up landing in or around Sarasota Springs via another airline that we know nothing about.”

  “He’s clever,” Tucker noted. “Could be he’s a pilot and flew his own plane there.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Brent acknowledged. “If someone is motivated enough to kill, they’ll find a way around getting tracked.”

  Tucker twisted in his chair. “Which brings us back to another cop. Who better to know how to do things like that than another member of law enforcement? They’d know how to slide under the radar, know how to cover their tracks. And if you look back to 1985, they’d certainly have inside information, be privy to when and where the County posted lookouts to spot drug runners. They’d have privileged information about surveillance, know about certain observation points, dates of undercover operations that occurred along the harbor and coastline.”

  “One reason they didn’t get caught,” Bodie noted.

  “I’m on your side here,” Brent stated. “I’m keeping an open mind about that possibility.”

  Tucker drummed his fingers on the table. “But. That sounds like there’s a but in there somewhere.”

  “No but. Mainly because I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that back in 1985, a .38 was a common weapon issued as a service revolver. Some officers always carried a backup. It wasn’t until 1986 that agencies began shifting over to automatic weapons. And that didn’t occur until a shootout in Miami went wrong and took out eight FBI agents. Overnight, the .38 lost its allure as a service weapon.”

  “You know this for a fact?” Tucker asked.

  “I do. Yeah.”

  “So, Dad’s accomplice in all this from the very beginning could’ve been a cop, a sheriff’s deputy. Think about it, Brent. A cop involved meant that the drug smuggling would have a better chance of success.”

  “Maybe they were friends even before they came up with the drug scheme,” Bodie suggested. “Maybe you still have a good chance of finding who this person is by looking into the people your father considered trusted friends. Who did he know in his inner circle that he would’ve trusted without question?”

  “That’s a good point,” Tucker said. “But Dad wouldn’t let just anyone into his circle. He had trust issues. Tell her, Brent.”

  Brent scratched his chin. “Yep. But it’s still an angle we should explore. Friends of Joe.”

  “Speaking of friends, what about neighbors?” Bodie prodded. “Surely that old couple you mentioned earlier was around when Tessie died. Maybe they could help you get a better insight into what they remember about it.”

  Tucker’s eyes glistened with newfound hope. “Arthur and Astor. Yeah. They’d certainly be able to tell me something about that day. What do you think, Brent?”

  “I think we should start with them.”

  It wasn’t until everyone had gone that Bodie realized she missed being at home. Her home. Somewhere between the backyard incident and finding the gun, reality had set in, making her feel anxious.

  Tucker seemed to sense the change. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just wondering if I should head home. I have to be at work at six, and my uniform’s at home.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure you want to leave, I’ll follow you there and make sure you get inside without a problem. With all this going on, are you okay to spend the night alone?”

  That didn’t sound like something she wanted to do either. “On second thought, maybe we could go pick up my uniform and head back here. There’s safety in numbers.”

  “I totally get how you feel. If I didn’t have to be here, I might pack up, take Lago, and move back to LA.”

  “Just like that, huh?”

  “I didn’t mean that I wouldn’t ask you to come with me.”

  If his words weren’t clear enough, Bodie understood his body language. A wall had gone up between them. “No, I get it. I do. We haven’t known each other long enough for anything permanent. No long-term commitments required.”

  “It was a slip of the tongue.”

  “That’s okay. If you don’t mind, though, I think I’ll take my chances and head home. Alone. I’m tired.”

  Tucker watched her gather up her bag and walk straight to the front door without another word. In the driveway, he heard her car startup. He heard the engine get fainter as she drove off out of the circle.

  His head began to pound at the temples with a headache. One glance over at a sleeping Lago told him he was on his own. He’d put his foot in his mouth…again. “Yeah, I knew this mess would somehow ruin a perfectly good relationship.”

  “It’s not the mess, it’s you,” Scott droned from across the room.

  Jumpy and edgy to begin with, a startled Tucker reacted to the voice by picking up the nearest weapon, a fireplace poker. He whirled on Scott. “Don’t do that to me, especially not now.”

  “Sorry. An ill-timed visit.”

  “I seem to have a lot of those lately,” Tucker huffed out, leaning the poker up against the fireplace screen. Weary of the whole thing, he dropped into a chair, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Come to gloat, have you?”

  “About getting dumped? Nah. She’s probably just upset over you not including her in your hypothetical move back to LA.”

  “Exactly. That’s all it was. I’m not going anywhere. It’s not my fault she took it the wrong way.”

  “Of course not. You made it clear that you’d take all your belongings and your dog, but not her.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Here’s a suggestion. Mend your fences now. Pick up the phone. Tonight. Don’t wait until morning to make sure she got home safely. Use that as your opening line.”

  Tucker reached for his cell phone on the coffee table but stopped. “By the way, were you that wrong about Oliver on purpose?”

  A sly smile spread across Scott’s face. “Some things you just need to figure out for yourself.”

  “Not me. Bodie saw it, though. She seemed to know the kid wasn’t all bad.”

  “Never underestimate a woman’s intuition.”

  “You think calling her will work?”

  “Only one way to find out. Besides, it’s the best thing you have right now. The longer you wait, the tougher it’ll be.”

  Tucker punched in the number and waited for her to pick up. At the sound of her voice, his tone softened. “Did you make it home okay?”

  Bodie had wanted him to call. She wouldn’t bother denying it. “I did. I’m sorry I over-reacted.”

  “That’s okay. I’m sorry I came off as insensitive. But you do realize I’m not moving anywhere, right?”

  She laughed, breaking some of the tension. Around the corner and a couple of streets over, Bodie got comfortable on the sofa. “That did occur to me on the drive home. My excuse is…”

  “You don’t need one.”

  “It’s been a long day. I’ve never been part of anything like this before, this murder, murders. The whole thing is beginning to freak me out a little. It’s unsettling on so many levels. You finding the gun tonight brought it all home. I guess it’s starting to get too real for me.”

  “Same here. Looking through that trunk was a wakeup call—that weapon probably killed those kids. Why else would it be hidden away like that?”

  “Exactly. And it bothers me about Gordon Carnaby, knowing he vanished and left his family to wonder all these years. We’re dealing with so much pain from so many sides. It seems whatever we do, we’re finding out someone else died. This killer…he’s leaving a lot of victims in his wake.”

  “Think of it this way. We’re filling in the missing pieces of a puzzle. These families have waited a lon
g time to hear some news. Maybe soon we can provide some details.”

  “That’s a good way to look at it.”

  “Come back to the house. Grab whatever you need and sleep here tonight.”

  Bodie didn’t have to think about her answer for long. She was already stuffing extra clothes down in a travel bag, enough to last for a couple of days. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Deal.”

  Nineteen

  The next morning dawned overcast and misty, not unheard of along the coast for late June. The sky spit out a thin drizzle enough to make the streets slick and the ground damp.

  Bodie had left for work in the drizzle at five-forty-five.

  Tucker had been awake ever since. He stood in the kitchen, looking out at the backyard. He could see the footprints he’d left on the lawn and another smaller set belonging to Bodie. If things had been different, he could’ve seen a future in those footprints. Two. Together. Here. But fear lodged in his belly. How could he think about the future when the past kept ripping through his landscape like a tornado, hurling destruction right and left?

  Turning back to the coffee pot, he pushed the button to start the machine and began to beat eggs in a bowl to scramble. When the doorbell rang, he sat the skillet aside and went to let Brent in. “You’re early.”

  “Don’t harangue me about it, okay?” Brent said, sniffing the air. “I need coffee. My tribe is just waking up, and what happens during breakfast with three young boys is nothing short of chaos. I don’t know how River handles it. But nothing seems to faze that woman. She finds it all so…workable and wonderful.”

  “And you don’t?” Tucker asked, dropping two pieces of toast in the toaster.

  Brent helped himself to the coffee pot. “Most times it’s great. Sure. But like now, when I’m involved in unsolved homicides, cold cases that go back years, I find my mind needs order. And bringing up three boys in the world we live in right now is daunting and a little scary. This case is a perfect example of that. Two college kids leave home for an adventure for the summer and never come back home. They disappear on my patch, maybe not on my watch, but you know what I mean. I look out my front door and stare at that boathouse. Knowing those kids were in there all that time makes me want to hit something. My grandmother was across the street when all this went down. I can’t wrap my head around it. Things like that shouldn’t happen, not in 1985 and not now. What if something like that were to happen to one of my boys? It makes me furious that someone could murder two young people, maybe more, and wipe away the fact they never existed at all and get away with it for thirty-five years. It gnaws at me.”